


Penance

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Character Death, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:02:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for LJ's got_exchange Comment Fic Meme.</p>
<p>Prompt:  What if nobody had stopped Victarion in time from killing Euron? I need some angst and guilt and punishment here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Penance

In the end, it was Balon who pried his hands from their brother’s neck. They were rigid from use, blood-stained and gore-streaked, bruised and battered. As for Euron, the same things could be said of him, nearly unrecognizable, his mouth a red ruin of missing teeth, skin blackened from strangulation, his eyepatch, always such a rakish touch, torn from the gaping hole in his face. Balon did not speak. In fact, he could not speak for the rage and horror that filled him, threatened to unman him, at the hideous sight before him. 

Victarion, always his right hand, had broken faith at last. He sat on the mossy stones of the great hall, head bowed, tangled hair, just beginning to silver in parts, concealing his face. 

_He cannot face me_ , Balon thought as he gripped his brother’s shoulder. 

“My Lord,” one of his men said, somewhere in the haze behind him, “take care. Your brother is mad.”

But Balon could see, all too well, that the fight had gone out of Victarion, that as he sat in a parody of penitence, he was spent and broken. It did nothing to quell the fury that rose inside of him. 

“Look at me,” he said, his voice cutting through the horrified silence. “Look at me, Victarion. Do not think to hide your shame now.” Victarion did not stir, his only movement the slight trembling of his shoulders as he crouched before his king. Balon bent then, a rough hand extended, grasping his brother’s chin, forcing his face into the light. “And do not mock me with your laughter. Your crime is far too grievous.” It disturbed him. After all, Euron was the one to jest, to mock, to pull faces in a conflict, whereas Victarion had always been like a mad bull, frowning and deadly, keeping his guard with a grim devotion. 

When he beheld his brother’s face, Balon said nothing, but inside he felt nothing but sickness. Tears streaked Victarion’s cheeks, and a look of utter helplessness marred his usual fearful visage. _He is unmanned, and his senses have gone._ Although Victarion would not, could not meet his eyes, he kneeled there, staring at him as tears made their tracks down blood-streaked cheeks. 

“You weep for him, you who have put him to death,” Balon said, his voice a whisper, and he drew back his hand and struck his brother full on the face, watching with a grim pleasure as his body contracted, his head snapped back. “You sit in my hall, crying like a woman, covered in your brother’s blood, your shame for all to see.” When Victarion did not respond, his anger intensified, and he grasped his hair, pulling his face into the light, forcing Victarion to look at him. But his brother’s eyes were closed, and it was not worth the bother. So he released him.

Balon stood and turned to the men that had clustered around them. “Take the body to the sea, and cast it from this place.” He was silent then for some time, watching as Euron’s corpse was lifted and borne from the hall. “And put my brother in chains.”

He turned and left, and did not watch them drag Victarion below. 

Some days later, Balon visited the cells. While his fury had not cooled, it had at least been tempered, and he was able to bear, although not accept, what had come to pass. He found Victarion much the same, his hair now matted, his clothing streaked with filth. He still sat with head bowed, his muscles slack, the powerful arms gone limp, the life gone from him. 

Balon said nothing, but stood before him, arms crossed, watching as he took breath after shallow breath, wondering if Victarion had completely lost his senses, if he even realized that someone else was there. The heavy manacles held him fast, and he did not fear any danger for himself, but he was still uneasy at the sight of it. He did not care for broken men. Grief was a frequent visitor to Pyke, and the Ironborn did well to make a friend, or at least a truce, with it. But this was far more deep a loss than the usual battle casualties, and did not think that his god would be forgiving of such a crime. 

When Victarion spoke, his voice was like an unused hinge. “When will you do the deed, brother?” His voice was muffled and thin from unuse. 

“I intend to leave you alive.” Balon did not show it, but in some measure he was relieved that Victarion was, in some way, still present. The man had been a constant in his life, his shield, his staunchest defender, and he did not know how to do without him. 

“My crimes are grievous,” Victarion replied, and he raised his head, squinting into the low light of the cell. “Accursed is the kinslayer, and what I have done…” But he could not finish, sagging again into his penitent position. 

“Accursed is the kinslayer, brother. You have the right of it. But I think to leave you alive. To condemn you would be a mercy far greater than I have leave to grant.” Balon smiled then, a grim expression. “No. To let you live with your crimes is to force you, every day of your life, to confront them, to account for them, and to attempt to atone for them. It is a lifelong punishment, a sin that you will never wash away, a forgiveness that you will never earn.” 

“And how will I atone?” 

“You will be my right hand again. You will do what your brother could not.”

“And what is that?”

Balon laughed. “We will take the east, we will take the north, we will have all of it. And you will lead the charge.” 

He ordered that Victarion be cleansed and clothed in clean garments, and then brought to his chambers. When Balon joined him there, he saw his brother whole again, and things were almost as they were. Almost. And when he extinguished the light, when his hands bent the other man’s body before him, grasping his shoulders almost too tightly, Balon thought that there were many kinds of penance to be had, even if they were cloaked in the guise of old habits.


End file.
